As they stepped forward, passing through the unmoving, opaque barrier, a faint chime sounded from her grandfather’s wrist. His armor’s onboard system reactivated, its scanners whirring softly as they analyzed the air, the structure—everything. A thin beam of light traced the walls, flickering as it processed the results.

[Analyzing Environment…]

[Material composition: Unidentifiable. Energy signatures: Stable. Atmospheric integrity: Within acceptable limits. Proceed with caution.]

Kira barely registered the automated report. Her focus was elsewhere.

She reached out, hesitating for only a moment before her fingers brushed the abyssal stone. Cold. Impossibly smooth, yet it did not feel inert. It was as though something within the walls stirred at her touch, acknowledging her presence.

She had seen the corruption of the Abyss before—had witnessed its hunger tearing through stone, metal, and flesh alike. Those ruins had felt wrong, decayed by an endless, mindless consumption.

But this? This was different.

This was intentional.

The walls were built of abyssal black bricks laced with veins of gold and platinum, their surfaces polished to an impossible sheen. When she ran her fingertips along them, she couldn’t even feel the transition between materials—as if they had not been assembled, but grown as one seamless form.

The passage stretched out before them, wider than necessary, yet its vastness felt deliberate, not excessive. The floor beneath her boots gleamed with an eerie perfection. At first glance, she had thought it was tiled—some grand mosaic, its patterns too complex to fully grasp—but now she saw the truth.

There were no seams.

What should have been individual tiles were fused into a single, solid piece, their edges titanium-sharp yet imperceptible to the touch. As if the entire floor had been carved from a singular, monolithic slab of something beyond her understanding.

Her stomach twisted.

This was not the crude, shifting corruption of the Abyss. This was crafted. Engineered.

Her grandfather moved forward without hesitation, his armored footsteps silent against the unnatural smoothness beneath them. Kira lingered for just a moment longer, fingers still against the abyssal stone, before finally forcing herself to follow.

The hum of her grandfather’s spell faded, the shimmering barrier of air dispersing with a quiet pop. There was no need for an atmosphere bubble here.

Kira released her own, the pressure equalizing in an instant.

That was when she smelled it—subtle, lingering at the edge of awareness. Something familiar.

A prickle of unease crawled up her spine.

Then pain.

A sharp jolt wriggled through her body, searing into her mind like a brand. She gasped, staggering as white-hot sensation lanced through her skull. For a fraction of a second—too brief to understand but long enough to wound—a sound echoed inside her head.

A voice?

Her vision swam. The world tilted.

She dropped to her knees, a sharp breath hitching in her throat. The polished floor was unnervingly smooth beneath her hands, but she barely registered it. The shock of whatever had just touched her mind left her dizzy, stomach twisting in protest.

Then, just as suddenly as it had struck, the moment passed. The pain ebbed, leaving only a ghost of its presence behind her eyes.

Silence.

She swallowed, forcing herself to steady her breathing. The voice—if it had been a voice—was gone.

Had she imagined it?

Or had something just spoken to her?

Her grandfather was at her side in an instant, his gauntleted hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

"Kira?" His voice was edged with concern, firm in a way that left no room for dismissal.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she pushed herself back onto her feet. "It was just the pressure difference," she said quickly. "I equalized too fast. It caught me off guard, but I’m fine now."

He didn’t answer right away.

Pressure difference? Maybe. But he had experienced abrupt atmospheric shifts before—dozens of times, in places far more volatile than this—and never had it caused a reaction like that. A sudden wave of dizziness, pain sharp enough to send someone to their knees…

And yet, something still didn’t sit right.

The way she had tensed. The way her breath had caught. For just a fraction of a second, there had been something else there—something she wasn’t saying.

He pushed the thought aside. Now wasn’t the time.

"You’re sure?"

Kira met his gaze, her expression steady. "Yes."

His frown deepened. Even as he finally stepped back, his posture remained stiff, tense. "If it happens again, we stop."

She didn’t argue. But they both knew the truth—there was no stopping now.

They moved forward.

The hallway stretched before them, disappearing into darkness. The moment they stepped further in, the shadows shifted.

One by one, torches flared to life along the walls—ethereal flames, blue tinged with violet, blooming into existence without sound. The glow cast eerie, flickering shapes against the polished black bricks, illuminating the gold and platinum laced within them.

It felt like a welcome.

Or a warning.

Kira swallowed, forcing herself to focus on the path ahead.

As they walked, he noticed the hallway was no longer straight. The shift was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but the further they went, the more it became clear—the corridor was bending.

Curving.

The downward slant was gradual, but soon, the hallway had begun to spiral, leading them deeper and deeper into the earth. The air grew cooler, heavier, the silence thickening with every step.

His steps remained careful, controlled. One hand lingered near the hilt of his weapon, the other hovering close to the device on his wrist.

They were being led somewhere.

And for the first time, he wondered if they would regret answering the call.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

They continued deeper and deeper into the earth.

The spiral descent felt endless. Time had lost meaning in the dim, flickering light of the violet-tinged flames. The further they went, the more the weight of the place pressed down on them, thick and unshakable.

Kira’s legs ached, but she forced herself forward, step after step, her mind focusing on nothing but the rhythm of her movements. Her grandfather’s steady presence ahead of her was the only sign that they had not been swallowed by the abyss entirely.

Then, after more than an hour, something changed.

A shift in the air.

It was subtle at first, a slow unraveling of the cold that had gripped the passage. Then, warmth—faint but undeniable—began to tinge the air once more.

And with it, that smell.

She faltered.

That scent—familiar yet distant, something she should know but couldn’t place—washed over her again, stronger this time. It curled around her senses, seeping into her lungs, stirring something deep within her mind.

Then she heard it.

A voice.

It was distant at first, hollow, like an echo slipping between the cracks of time itself.

A woman’s voice.

Soft. Grief-stricken.

The words curled into her mind, carrying the weight of sorrow untold, yet commanding in their urgency.

"You mustn’t wake him."

Kira’s breath hitched.

Kira's breath came unsteady as the voice faded, its sorrow lingering in the back of her mind like the final note of a song that had no end.

She swallowed hard, turning her gaze toward her grandfather. He hadn’t slowed, his armored form still moving forward with unwavering certainty.

Still, she had to ask.

“…Did you hear that?”

Her voice was quieter than she intended, uncertain.

Her grandfather stopped. His head tilted slightly, listening—but there was only silence. The air was thick, heavy with something unspoken, but no sound came beyond the soft flicker of the torches.

After a moment, he turned his gaze to her. “Hear what?”

Kira hesitated.

If he had to ask, then he hadn’t heard it.

She licked her lips, searching for the right words. “A voice. A woman’s voice. It said… you mustn’t wake him.”

His expression darkened, but not in the way she expected. It wasn’t concern—it was calculation. He was considering something.

“…No,” he said finally. “I heard nothing.”

Concern grew over her grandfather’s hardened face.

This was not the first time Kira had heard voices.

Visions, glimpses of things that had not yet come to pass—or things long since buried in the past. She had always been different, attuned to something just beyond the reach of understanding. It was a gift, some had said. A curse, others whispered.

He wasn’t sure which he believed.

The silence between them stretched, thick and weighted, before Kira finally spoke.

“We’re close,” she said, her voice quiet but sure.

Then, almost as if the words had been pulled from her, she added,

“I think… I can feel him.”

Her grandfather’s expression did not change, but his hands tightened into fists. He said nothing.

Instead, they pressed on—downward, ever downward—toward what lay waiting in the dark.

As they stepped closer, the console beside the door flickered for the briefest of moments—then, as if it had never been, it simply ceased to exist.

Not deactivated. Not broken. Just… gone.

Kira barely had time to process this before the great doors parted with a deep, resonant hum. The air that rushed past her was thick with warmth and something more—something old.

The chamber beyond was vast.

A grand hall stretched out before them, its towering walls lined with crystalline formations of deep blues and rich greens. The crystals pulsed faintly, their light shifting and stirring as if breathing with the very stone of the structure itself. They cast long, wavering reflections across the polished black floor, mirroring the golden and silver inlays upon the walls.

But none of that held her attention for long.

At the center of the room, half-shrouded in shadows, was something.

An object—its shape not quite discernible, its form shifting at the edges of her perception. No matter how she tried to focus on it, to define it in her mind, the image slipped away, evading her understanding. The sight made her chest tighten, her breath shallow. Whatever it was, it did not belong to the realm of simple things.

But even that could not outshine the sheer wonder that filled the room.

It was a treasury—not just of wealth, but of history.

Along the walls, massive bookshelves stretched high, their wooden frames so ancient that their deep stain had faded to an almost ghostly hue. The texts they held were bound in thick, timeworn leather, some bearing elaborate sigils, others nameless, their spines too worn to read. Scrolls lay stacked within delicate glass cases, preserved with reverence, their edges curled with age.

Above them, great tapestries hung, their once-brilliant colors dimmed by the passage of time, yet their depictions remained breathtaking. Scenes of battles long past, celestial bodies intertwined in cosmic dances, figures draped in robes unlike any she had ever seen—all woven with threads of silver and gold, catching the glow of the crystal light in mesmerizing patterns.

Beneath the tapestries, weapons lay displayed upon long stone tables.

Some bore the unmistakable weight of history—blades darkened with the passage of centuries, hafts wrapped in materials no longer found in the worlds she knew. A great spear of shimmering metal stood upright, its tip still keen, its shaft engraved with shifting symbols that moved like flowing water. A pair of curved daggers, wicked and delicate, sat atop a cushion of deep violet fabric, their hilts gleaming with inlaid gemstones. Some weapons glowed faintly, their power still pulsing, waiting. Others were simple, unassuming—yet they had been placed here, in this hall, for a reason.

Gems and gold adorned the room in subtle ways—ornate chests left half-open, their contents shimmering beneath the faint crystal light. The wealth of kings, perhaps. Or something far older.

Clothing of impossible beauty lay folded upon stone benches, each piece as pristine as the day it was made. Silks so fine they seemed woven from mist, embroidered with symbols that almost felt like words. Cloaks lined with materials that shimmered like the night sky.

And yet, despite all the splendor, Kira's eyes kept drifting back to the center of the room.

To the thing that wasn’t quite there.

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper.

“…What is this place?”

The terminal flickered to life, its surface humming with ancient energy as text scrolled across the screen in a language long forgotten—yet somehow, Kira understood. The voice returned, no longer disembodied, but emanating directly from the machine itself.

"This is where he sleeps."

A pause. Then, as if compelled to explain, the voice continued.

"These are the remnants of his past. Treasures, weapons, knowledge—artifacts of an age before memory. They were placed here not as mere relics, but as fragments of the one who once walked among them. Each a piece of him, a reflection of what he was… and what he should have been."

The screen flickered, images flashing too quickly to grasp—warriors locked in battle, a city standing against the dark, a lone figure, sword raised, staring into an abyss that threatened to consume all.

"This is no tomb," the voice intoned. "It is a shrine. A monument to what was... and to what must never be forgotten."

The air grew heavier, charged with something unseen.

Kira swallowed hard, her gaze drawn to the indistinct shape at the room’s center. The crystal, deep blue and green, pulsed faintly.

He was here.

Waiting.

Kira’s grandfather took a step forward, his gaze locked onto the terminal, his expression unreadable. His hand clenched at his side, the subtle movement the only sign of the tension running through him.

“That voice…” Owen murmured, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and recognition.

A pause.

Then the voice spoke again, calm and unwavering.

“Yes, Owen.”

A faint pulse of energy rippled through the room as the terminal’s light brightened.

“I am the one who watches over his sleep now.”

Her grandfather surged forward, closing the distance in an instant. His movements were swift, but not reckless—driven by something deeper than urgency.

The terminal was ancient, yet eerily familiar. Its design mirrored the device on his wrist, but this one was far older, its surface wired into the structure itself as though it had always belonged here.

A faint glow pulsed on the screen, its light shifting like the embers of a dying fire. Symbols flickered in and out of existence, their meaning just beyond comprehension. The presence within it was unmistakable.

Kira hesitated, watching as her grandfather reached for the terminal, his fingers hovering just above its surface. There was something raw in his expression, something she had never seen before.

Recognition. And something dangerously close to hope.

Her grandfather’s breath caught in his throat. His gaze snapped from the terminal to the great crystal at the center of the chamber, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then… he still lives?”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, the terminal's soft glow pulsed, and the voice returned—measured, calm, yet heavy with something Kira could not name.

“No, Owen. Not really. His body is dead. His soul… all but burnt out.”

Kira’s stomach twisted. The weight of those words settled upon her shoulders like a shroud.

Then—

A voice.

But not from the terminal.

Not from the past.

Inside her mind, soft yet desperate, a woman’s voice laced with grief.

“You mustn’t wake him. You cannot let him experience that loss again—to watch the one he loves die in his arms, time and time again.”

The sorrow in the voice cut through her like a blade, an ache not her own settling deep in her chest.

“Please… let him sleep.”

Sadness washed over Owen. The weight of those words settled on him, deep and unshakable. His fingers curled against the terminal’s surface, his expression shadowed with something Kira had never seen before—not just grief, but resignation.

But Kira was confused.

Why was this voice hiding the truth from him? Why was she pleading in whispers, in riddles?

The ache in her chest turned, twisted, curdling into something sharper. Anger.

Why was she playing games? What was she afraid of?

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had seen death, had seen the way it stole people away, how it hollowed out those left behind. But this—this was different.

This wasn’t just grief.

This was intentional.

A choice.

And she wanted to know why.

The pressure building inside her finally broke.

“Why?!”

Her voice cracked, raw with something deeper than frustration. Desperation. It tore through the still air, echoing off the crystalline walls, a demand, a plea—she didn’t even know which.

Owen turned sharply, eyes widening at the force behind her outburst.

“Kira—” He reached for her, but she stepped forward instead, toward the great crystal, toward the unseen presence watching them.

His confusion deepened. He had seen her angry before, but this was different. The emotion in her voice, the sheer need behind it—he didn’t understand.

Something was happening.

Something he wasn’t seeing.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Owen felt truly afraid.

Kira surged forward, her boots striking against the polished stone floor as she reached for the device. The glow of the terminal pulsed, as if it were alive, as if it could hear her desperation.

But the moment her fingertips neared its surface—

Agony.

A sharp, searing pain lanced through her skull, a burning heat that spread like fire through her mind. Kira gasped, staggering as her knees buckled beneath her.

Her vision exploded into white.

Not darkness. Not the void of unconsciousness.

White.

Blinding. Consuming.

A vision?

No.

A memory.